I really like lit-to-film adaptations, so when a movie comes out that I’m interested in and it’s based on a book, I’ll usually read the book as well as see the movie. I don’t think that’s weird. What’s maybe a little weird is how I then look at them in conversation with each other as if they’re simply two cameras showing us the same story with their own perspectives and filters and, from that, how I then think we can view the different interpretations of a common story as statement pieces of their respective storytellers.
I once built and taught a literature class around that idea and got to teach it for a couple years. It was fun. I’m a huge nerd.
So anyway the film adaptation of The Dog Stars came out, and it so happened some friends had recommended recently I read the book because they thought it was up my alley, and boy howdy is it. It was something of a surreal experience for me reading this story about a couple of guys and a dog trying to survive after an apocalypse and seeing how thematically and emotionally similar it is to this novel I worked on for five years and nobody seems interested in publishing (#NotBitter).
It’s a very different book, of course, but if I could have a beer or a coffee with Peter Heller (the novel’s author), I imagine we’d have some things to talk about.
As it is, I really enjoyed The Dog Stars (both the book and film), and they taught me some things. Such as…
Most craft essays focus on how storytelling works, but we don’t talk enough about why it works. I think the question is relevant whether you want to write stories or you just like to experience them, and it gets at the heart of not only the deeply moving effect storytelling can have but also its utility—why it’s so profoundly important storytellers keep doing what we do.
Once again, I’m inspired by my teaching experience. I previously wrote about how I see stories as arguments, and while I think it can be helpful to think of stories rhetorically, teaching or educating is another part of argumentation; if you want someone to agree with you, you have to ensure they understand and know what you do. There are many ways to do that, of course, but let’s talk about two categories of learning.
Last time, I wrote about Aristotle’s rhetorical appeals and how they can play a role in storytelling, and it got me thinking about triangles. We often express Aristotle’s appeals in triangular shape to demonstrate effective rhetoric can’t exist without all three and to express the idea that they’re connected. Triads appear in all kinds of artistic theory, from the color wheel to the building blocks of musical chords. So what about literature? I’ve been wondering about other storytelling elements that we can visualize as triangles and how this frame of thought can help us better understand the stories we’re experiencing or telling.
In times such as these, it’s easy to forget you need to take care of yourself, so here is a poem I wrote that I think is kind of nice. It’s about being stuck between a storm and sunshine with a dog. I hope it brings you a few moments of joy and perhaps something to think about today.
The Whole Damn World
Each moment we’re out here, sheltered in the shade of tree canopies, insistent sun baking pavement rainfall, life’s ambient anthem playing in audible particle collisions to make wing flaps, insect swells, breath drawn into arterial corridors, exhaled in pulses, stolen in atmospheric currents, gripped by leaves, channeled by branch, and sucked by root, I wish he would just pee already so we can go back inside where it’s cool and quiet, and the air is filtered, and the sounds of neighborly chats and combustion engines and lovers loving and playful children’s thunderous footsteps are muted and heavy curtains made from synthetic materials and dusted with shed skin cells reject the sun because we like to sleep through mornings and extract some peace when we think there is none to be had.
Maybe all he wants in the whole damn world is to stand beneath this oak tree paws planted in musty mulch sniffing the honeysuckle wind hearing each raindrop as it tremendously pats one of a million leaves breathing the steam and mist of a daylight storm watching cars that don’t belong pass by ensuring they pass by because, he thinks, if not for this leash, he would chase them off, and wouldn’t that be a glorious morning for everyone involved, if not for the leash?
And maybe he’s not as greedy as I am to want the whole damn world but just a piece of it, and maybe it’s the greatest gift I can give him to let him have it.
Recently, my wife and I finished watching the second season of Shrinking, and while the credits rolled, I leaned in, wrapped my arms around her, and just stayed there for a while because I cherish her so damn much.
For me, it was a moment of pure storytelling magic. While stories can have myriad effects on us, depending on the story and the audience, Shrinking is a show about cherishing loved ones and growing by facing personal challenges together. It’s therapeutic and only natural that my response to it is an outpouring of love. Other responses also are perfectly natural or reasonable, though, if it makes you feel violent, you might want to talk to someone about that. I found myself profoundly moved.
When I taught literature to undergrads, I distinguished between fact and truth with my students. One appealing aspect of nonfiction storytelling is it’s built on facts. We tend to call them “true stories,” but I wish we’d call them “factual stories” because there’s a larger truth to factual stories that goes beyond the facts. We watch a documentary about Bernie Madoff and think, “yeah, he had a really good life for a while, but when the hammer came down, they even took his underwear. Maybe stealing from people isn’t worth it.” We read a biography about a great political figure and walk away with a perspective of hope. We watch a 30-second clip on the Internet of a guy rescuing a doe from a frozen lake, and our faith in humanity is restored.
Fictional stories access these same larger truths even though they may be based on fabrications and fantasy. Fiction, despite being totally made up, contains truth or truths.
It’s become fashionable for writers to end the year with a look back at their favorite books, movies, shows, etc. I like that, but I’m going to spare you a big list and just give you my favorites from each category.
Book
Sleepwalk by Dan Chaon—Chaon’s latest novel reads a bit like The Big Lebowski if it were written by Hunter S. Thompson. It’s a wild road-tripping novel, but it has a zen-like demeanor that makes it a comfortable read even when circumstances are dire. I think there’s something of a masterclass here in balancing tension and levity with the way conflicts come to bear on a character who’s calm, cool, and hilarious in even the most tense of moments. I’ve seen other writers try such characters and fail because the levity ruins the tension and they forget to make their characters human. Billy, the main character and narrator in Sleepwalk, is complex and satisfyingly self-aware, and while I was analyzing him, he was reflecting on his own past and behavior in interesting ways that never undermined my own thoughts about him. Other characters in the novel are similarly intriguing, and Chaon doesn’t neglect the plot (which is driven by a bizarre conspiracy with twists and mysteries around every corner) or the world building (which describes a society on the verge of collapse, and it bleeds through the storytelling in really satisfying ways). Highly recommended, as I do all of Dan Chaon’s work.
Film
Inside Out 2—Maybe it’s weird for my favorite movie of the year to be a Pixar animated film, especially given I don’t have children and tend to write about horrible stuff, but Pixar’s storytelling is top notch, and game recognizes game. While I saw some really good films this year, the ones that move me emotionally stick with me, and what better film to do that than a story that’s literally about emotions? I don’t think the sequel is as good as the original because it retreads some territory and doesn’t use the opportunity to tell a meaningful story with the characters who do that. That said, the broader film tells a wonderfully moving story about growing up and maturing through the turbulent time that is puberty and young adulthood, and it does so in a way that resonates with anyone who knows what it is to be human, regardless of what age they are. For me, these movies are something like therapy sessions. I can take thrilling action sequences, jump scares, gore, and anything else you want to throw at me, but if you’re not telling me a meaningful and moving story, I’m just not going to care or remember it. Inside Out 2 didn’t put me on the edge of my seat or make me peer through parted fingers, but it did turn me into a puddle of tears, and I’m still thinking about it. That’s what matters most, as far as I’m concerned. That’s what makes the stories that stick with you.
TV Series
Dark Matter—One of my favorite novels is now one of my favorite TV shows. Blake Crouch, who wrote the novel, was heavily involved in the production of this series, and it’s apparent. It isn’t as word-for-word, scene-for-scene faithful as you might think. Crouch changed and added to the storytelling for the TV series in ways that I think were generally positive while maintaining the qualities that make the novel great. Chief among them is the intimate love story and the theme of legacy at the plot’s core, but the series is, in many ways, actually more complex than the novel, utilizing the third-person perspective to more deeply explore character narratives beyond the primary protagonist. I loved this adaptation for giving us a moving story built on interesting characters and relationships but supercharging the narrative with a continually moving, perfectly balanced plot. If you’re interested in studying popular storytelling, reading this novel and watching the series adaptation will provide deep insight, even if you aren’t particularly keen on the genre details. If you aren’t studying storytelling, per se, I think it’ll move you in ways that will surprise you. This one moved me and stuck with me, too. (Also, no, it had no influence on my title of this Substacky thing.)
Video Game
Cyberpunk 2077—I don’t like the cyberpunk genre, but I didn’t particularly like fantasy before I played The Witcher 3 either. Polish video game developer CD Project Red is doing amazing things in the industry, and the company stands out because, while it chases technological and gameplay innovation, its games rest on a foundation of storytelling. While this game launched in 2020, I waited until this year to check it out because it reportedly had a rough go of it with bugs, glitches, and underdeveloped features. The developer stuck with it, however, and now it’s legitimately one of the best interactive storytelling experiences I’ve ever had. The story of V, a mercenary in Night City who seeks to save their own life and do the right thing for those they love, is going to stick with me for a long time. To boot, it features what might just be Keanu Reeves’ best, most-nuanced performances as rock-star-turned-terrorist Johnny Silverhand. Easy to get lost in, Cyberpunk 2077 is a perfect example of video games’ uniquely immersive storytelling potential, and I think any storytelling lover is missing out by disregarding them.
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In his 2016 book, The Great Derangement: Climate Change and the Unthinkable, Amitav Ghosh lays out the case for climate change and charges contemporary fiction writers with the responsibility of writing about it. But why, Ghosh wonders, aren’t our fiction writers writing about it? Ghosh condemns contemporary fiction writers for a failure to address climate change.
I found it an interesting accusation because, in my experience, fiction writers were, in fact, writing about climate change and had been for years. Ghosh proposed the idea that writers in the literary mainstream would tend to be relegated to science fiction when writing about climate change, and considering the realities of western literary culture—where we tend to draw lines of artistic merit between literary traditions—I think he had a point. To me, though, a good story is a good story.
Regardless, in the eight years since Ghosh’s book hit shelves, I think we’ve seen a more widespread willingness of writers to go there.
When I picked up Between Days by Nick DeWolf, I had no idea what to expect. I’d read his novels but only one of his short stories, and I certainly didn’t know what a collection of dreams was. What I found was a cool collection of tales full of wonder, horror, imagination, and heart.
Between Days is a collection of short stories based on dreams, and it’s notably filled with variety and diversity of thought. Each story has its own identity and an apparent reason for being, but more than that, the sheer breadth of aesthetic is impressive. Many writers have trouble writing anything that isn’t literally inspired by their daily lives or lack the ability to imagine themselves as anyone but themselves, but this book demonstrates Nick DeWolf’s imagination knows no boundaries. I didn’t realize until this collection that what I’ve always wanted from him is a book full of his stories. This book shows what his beautifully unique brain can produce when it is unrestrained and empowered to follow its muse. It’s a wonderful thing to behold, and while his novels are magnificent descents into living, breathing worlds full of intriguing characters and compelling plots, this collection allows him to play with his extraordinary imagination in many different ways.
Between Days is kind of like going to Nick DeWolf’s fro-yo shop where the fro-yo is his imagination and you can stick your head under the spouts at will. Toppings are free. Go ahead and heap them on. Nobody’s going to weigh your bowl at the end.
I think most readers look to stories primarily to take them somewhere alluring and to be with people who are interesting. Nick DeWolf has a creative mind that is uniquely suited to satisfy these desires. As a means of escape, Between Days grants readers worlds and realities to wander and wonder about. Moreover, I think most readers are looking for experience, vicarious living through empathy, when they pick up a book. I think most readers are looking to feel something, and in that regard, I think this collection is full of successes.
Illustration by Luke Spooner, Design by Todd Keisling
In 2017, author and editor Richard Thomas assembled a staff of other writers, editors, and artists to pursue a new venture in dark speculative literature. Backed by a Kickstarter, the project aimed to pay competitive pro rates, putting creators first in a business that often privileges virtually everyone else.
That year, Gamut Magazine was born, and over the course of twelve issues, it published some truly pivotal work for dark-leaning literature, pushing genres like horror, fantasy, and science fiction into new realms. Unlike many other literary magazines, Gamut’s only aesthetic was that the writing had to turn its gaze to dark things. Seemingly everything else was not only fair game but encouraged.
Thus, Gamut succeeded in removing many of the stylistic and creative guardrails for contemporary genre literature. Unfortunately, after its inaugural run, the choice was made to close Gamut Magazine.
But it turns out Gamut didn’t die. It just went to sleep for a while.
This year was a bit slow on the publishing front, but I did have two short stories get out there in the world. The first was a post-apocalyptic tale about unlimited power over finite resources, good intentions, and robots, appearing in Haven Speculative’s June issue. Read “Touch of Ruin” here.
The second is a more personal story about grief, loss, and brotherhood, and it won the F. Scott Fitzgerald Literary Festival Short Story contest in September. This was a bit of a milestone for me, and I was touched and honored the story won the contest. Read “A Winter Bloom” here.
Aside from those two publications, this year has been another one chock full of rejection. So it goes, right, Kurt? However, I did finish my next novel, titled American Spirits, and I’m seeking representation for this one. If you know any agents who might be interested, send them my way.
My Favorite stories of 2023
This time of year, I see a lot of favorite lists getting passed around, and I thought it was high time to do that myself. After all, I’m nothing if not a fan of other storytellers’ work.
